


Even if we can't find heaven...

by Ordinarily



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Dean Winchester and Feelings, Drabble, Gen, Season 5 Finale, Suicidal Thoughts, all the in-between we don't see, this is pretty self-indulgent ngl, thought drabble
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-12
Updated: 2018-06-12
Packaged: 2019-05-21 06:24:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 738
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14910050
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ordinarily/pseuds/Ordinarily
Summary: Sam takes one for the team and Dean's a wreck.(Takes place at the end of season 5, episode 22)





	Even if we can't find heaven...

**Author's Note:**

> i need to stop projecting my crumbling mental state onto fictional characters

There were things Dean wanted more than life itself. For one, to take his own. While he sat at Lisa’s rustic style dining room table, passing the mashed potatoes off to Ben—why was it always mashed potatoes? Did normal families have a side of mashed potatoes at _every_ meal?—he fought to remain stoic. The hand holding his knife trembled. He thought of stabbing himself with it, all the ways he could just end it, all the organs he could pierce to cause internal bleeding. And later, in front of the bathroom mirror, with the spare toothbrush he’d been given, he thought about delivering a quick blow to the centre of the glass, grabbing for a shard and dragging cuts the size of rulers along is forearms or, better yet, slicing his throat and getting it over with already. 

He threw up and had to brush his teeth again but staring at his reflection for so long sent a new wave of nausea to his stomach, so he turned away, bracing himself against the sink. He wasn’t sure how long it would be. He was pretty dead inside anyway; knew it would only be a matter of time before he gave up his corporeal form. A fleeting sentiment had him thankful Cas and Bobby were still alive, although some nagging voice from his past insisted that if they were going to kick the bucket, it should've stayed that way. It only seemed fair. Life had taken everything else from him, why leave him with friends? Long-distance friends that would be, because Castiel was busy in heaven being the good, order-following ~~dog~~ son he was fabricated to be and Dean didn’t think he could face Bobby for a while after this.

He thought of the guns still piled in the trunk of the Impala. It would take about a thirty-second walk out Lisa’s front door and the cock and pull. A pistol, a shotgun, a rifle—hell, even the colt. He wondered if he’d be brought back this time. Intuition told him no, their business was done. Sam was in the pit and even though he’d dragged down Michael with him, the precedent that God didn’t give a shit about anything wasn’t exactly a revolutionary one. 

In the guest bedroom, Dean stared up at the ceiling fan and mulled over just how much effort it would take to tie the bedsheets into a noose. Probably not that much, he figured, but he couldn’t do that to Lisa and Ben. If he was going to do it, he’d make sure the body was never found. But that was the thing. For as much as he wanted to just end it, there were still people who cared about him. There were still people who cared about Sam too, he pressed, but it felt like he was the only one unwilling to cope with the sacrifice, especially after watching his brother suck in ragged breaths through clenched teeth, nodding ardently in an attempt at self-assurance right before he hurled himself into that gaping sinkhole in cemetery ground. Being numb was so much better than feeling, yet even with the glasses of liquor he’d tossed back, the crater in his chest grew wider and deeper until he felt so hollow he was beginning to comprehend the full extent of the word ‘vessel’. 

In the morning, he promised himself he would start looking for a job and in between applications he’d get some books at the library, start on research to get Sam out of the cage. This was his _little brother,_ here—promise be damned. It was Sam who’d wanted nothing more than to get out of the hunting biz. Sam who’d fought relentlessly with their father, until he was gone and then it was _shit, I love you Dad._ Sam who brought the compassion and empathy to their straight-faced, cold-exterior duo. And it was Sam who’d tried everything he could think of to save Dean—went dark to get him out of that grave six feet under and would have even if Dean hadn’t trembled in his sleep or whimpered about not wanting to go. Sam hadn’t stopped trying and neither would he. 

Screw some celestial war and screw prophetic fates. Dean needed his brother back. And if it came to the crunch and he had to trudge a hacking battle axe or stormtrooper flamethrower downstairs… well, then so be it.


End file.
